She smiled at assessment of her uncle’s philosophy. She’d reached a similar conclusion, but had never lacked ambition, even if it wasn’t something she upheld as a personal virtue, it was simply who she was. Her uncle had been a man without her connection to magic, without the ability to hear and feel it as she did. It made sense, in hindsight, why her uncle would think it suspect.

She withheld further judgement as he spoke, his life was his to evaluate; not hers. She wondered at the willful, proud boy she remembered before he became the man before her. She wondered if he got that silent power from his father or mother, who taught him to be a force of nature that could bend nature itself. She wondered at his journey from youth to being forced to conform to a mold he should never have been forced to fit. Considering her words, knowing she did not have the standing to make her case, she still ventured, “I think it would have killed you, the politics and monotony. You weathered enough small minds when we were in school. I think a life of it would be torturous.”

She let the comment rest wherever it would land and smiled when turned to her, his mischief plain on his face. She matched it, her good humor and gratitude for his gift clear in her eyes. “I do enjoy the taste of power. The wine is only a house elf away.” She winked. That could be their little secret.

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   Samuel Griffith